storms like tides…

storms like tides…

no, quite literally
just moments ago
or an hour, who can be sure
the skies were black with rage
and blazing flash
rain highway sideways, pelting the windows

so temporal, all this
so trapped in moments, we become

for oh sun, now shines
how light is cast against darkness

in contrast
I feel the despair leeching out of very my skin
as if being pulled out string by string
by an invisible, palpable, force of hand – yes
and quite suddenly
I am transformed
long forgotten, the storm

First Light… (a herald)

First Light… (a herald)

“first light

first light
‘ning bug,

tonight
for spring
has truly

gone,
fuzzy
lantern
dangling
hovering
flashing

signaling,
a hazy bulb
with a halo
wavering in
the humidity-
a diffused lens

notes… the air is like a hot towel, more like the hanging days of august than the late hours of june… but this is now, so it is, even night does not bring rest, or a reprieve, the air wants to sit like a moist heavy sleeve, just soaked enough to cling to your skin, just enough to let a breeze be revelation – for a moment’s notice that is…. and then I see them, through the mist of watering my plants, little bells of light, a delight in other times, a child’s mind, bio luminescent beings floating in the ether, either I am dreaming or summer has arrived….
blue ‘phin

blue ‘phin

Photo by Guillaume Hankenne on Pexels.com

in the miles of the blue
pointed eyes navigate the blur
imagine skimming
skipping along
like a trance
or a song
spinning through the air
darting among
with thrush
and a rush,
bobbing for air
when the need arise
coursing, like a vein
these are the days of pure freedom
swimming in unison
with my brethren
in these miles of the blue
stretched out in all directions

notes… I think the music fits the feel of this one… of course I am partial, I am me you know, this is my blog so…
rain dance…

rain dance…

Photo by Binyamin Mellish on Pexels.com

I wish the whimsical
I pray, I dance
on the drum skins of the old gods
lying forgotten in the thunderlands
I shout out, in trance
to transform this grassy prairie
into the bounty of lush forestlands
may brooks break the backs of the deep plates
and carve-cut out the roadways
for life to venture out upon
quench the sponge until overflow
from bird to bee, proliferation
all manner of life, let this be

notes… one of those that snuck into my skull, I found myself in ancient america at the foot of the grasslands, and wondered what it would have looked like if forest had extended outward coast to coast.. so this is that work…

find your place, a nook, an escape, if even for a moment…

find your place, a nook, an escape, if even for a moment…

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on calming waters
the ripples freeze-frame slide and hypnotize
a gull, on a rock, outcrop
two swans act as ostriches of the loch
the simplicity; the serenity;
moves me, sways me, fades me
on calming waters
distorted reflections like impressionist paintings
another world lies, there a-waiting,
to dive in and cleanse my soul,
shed my common clothes-
for a-while,
the hands of the mother, curved earth basin
cupped vessel filled with the universal
for water is life revealed in a mirror
from which we walked, from which we waked
from which we came; yes
on calming waters
a goose and child forage grass-ed edge
unaware of politics or the foibles of men
for this sense ties not to clocks
but perhaps to ancient sun dials,
sweeping ripples, eyes to follow
one by one, out to the horizons
gone, like my words- fallen to the shore
how many have whispered, the worship here before
and let their depths be drowned
for spirit rise, to be cleansed
for the return, to the dominion of men.

only to fall back, into the mud brick laying
the paving, straw and mud, and the modern spoke turning
the drudgery of construct- a yoke
until again
those calming waters call
until then, until that baptismal pause
shall bring renewal, from mother’s hand

notes… so I wrote this in the parking lot of a church, it was raining so I didn’t get out of the car, but this is my spot, right on the franklin lakes reservoir, it is my spring, my fountain, a spot I can go to and escape the every day right under the thumb of the every day, so I recommend you find one… or better two… or nine, sanctuary to let nature drain the stain of normal life off your pelt… it helps…

forsythia (and a treatise on spring)

forsythia (and a treatise on spring)

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forsythia,
my dear, my consort
cast out upon the land
a golden plume
a golden mane
the stirring locks of ostara herself
harbinger of spring
message received
for you are truly born of the stars
from your roots rise sunrise up upon this earth-
rejoice!
spring’s sweet songs do awaken.

for spring is a procession of progression
cherry blossoms bathe the path in white to lavender and all manners up to purple, urban planning has them lining the streets in rows like a royal parade celebrating victory over the great winter – for at least a time, and short lived they will fall like confetti littering the street on the day after, the daffodils, holding golden cups sky-upward ready to brim with the coming rains, those same rains will flatten them as they nourish the rest of the surely coming green flourish, the ramps, onion cousins, or maybe garlic uncles, no, more like tiny onions, their chive clump headdress pokes through looking like unruly fits of grass, spring onions – yes, they are known to check in with such a name in certain establishments, the arcs of forsythia, golden arches with no drive thru, inspired in such golden rod as to make midas blush, the mornings are filling with song and sun, Ostara winks as her womb births the dawn of hope, and so I do, spring is hope, hope is spring, and then the worn hot complacency of summer sets in, burns out all the green, and then the world must sleep once more to regain, to regenerate, to be born once again – better to enjoy this now, the colors, the procession, the daily progress of life bursting to be seen, yes, take in the scene.

a perfect winter morning…

a perfect winter morning…

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the silk spun of a winter morn
a slight of grey
weighs –
up on over the land
a sheer coat of form
from that of man across earth herself
a pause-
the luster
of slumber frost

notes… woke up this morning (seems obvious), grabbed my cup of joe from the kcup kiosk installed in my kitchen (starbucks columbia in my uber fancy yeti travel mug – sheesh I’m a coffee dork), throwing my stuff in the car, the phone, the clipboard with all my nonesuch, and I notice it, that perfect coating, that sprayed on amazing coating of frost across the lawn and all the eyes (barely open) can take in, such perfection, sure, it’s damn cold, twenty degrees ain’t no joke, but even in the grip of all this, the little shimmering reflections all around, so I reflected on it for a moment, and this is what I found…

in a moment’s glance, there is grace.

in a moment’s glance, there is grace.

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kiss of a sunset
to quiet the gears that grind
I shall remember

behind a grand tree
light slides in the afternoon
I take a deep breath

kiss of a sunset
absorbs all my creation
palms cleansed by water

and shall I count now
each of these unto my lips
for never lasting

notes… OK… sometimes I snuggle up to haiku… basho is awesome I must admit, I am usually mr. freeform but sometimes something triggers that itch of the japanese verse variety… work was dragging… I could feel it drowning me (my fault), looked out the window, the sun was setting (early this time of year) right behind a big old tree and some buildings, and it gave me pause… and a reprieve, silver linings indeed…

snap thought/write…

snap thought/write…

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tonight the temp is just right
cold enough to be colder than
I can just smell
the sweet leaves that fell wet
so many more to go
but this line between
seasons in change
I lament the summer
but feel ready for fall
prepared by all the signals
my mind is made ready
standing-waiting in a train station stop
waiting to board the transition on

notes… just walked outside, my windows are open but I am not getting inside this lovely wave of fall air, refreshment indeed in some sense, not reprieve from a scorching day, more like comfort in a perfect blanket zone, comfortable, soothing, but yet hints of fall, the slightly sweet smell of rotting leaves, dying leaves, the intoxicating sweet smell of decay, hinted, and the cricket choir is still living, and loud, but not as much or so much, some what subdued, like the temperature, a bull tamed, a wild horse tamed but yet will fade away into the cold, but right now that feels OK, no, it feels fantastic, relief… sweet belief. oh yeah, and this was something I just wrote in my head when I stepped outside, so, that is what it is, kind of haiku feel…